A Lily Among Thorns(72)

Serena had seen her many times over the years, of course, but she’d never really paid attention. Now she examined her carefully. The baroness was a stout, pretty woman, probably still two or three years on the right side of thirty, with a coil of dark brown hair and a splendid bust. Her eyes were of a pure, clear gray—very large, and very fine. She spoke with a faintly foreign intonation. And she looked near to fainting from nerves. “Lady Serena? I would like to speak to you alone, if I may.”

Solomon rose hastily, but Serena grabbed his wrist and smiled politely. “Please have a seat, Lady Brendan. You’re here for a catering order, aren’t you?”

Lady Brendan sat down, her eyes shifting away and back. “I suppose so.”

“This is Mr. Solomon Hathaway. He has offered our catering department his services as a baker, and I think you’ll be glad of his advice in creating a menu.”

“Are you the brother of a Mr. Elijah Hathaway?” she asked.

Solomon nodded, surprised. “Do you know my brother?”

“No—that is, I know of him—that is—I was sent here by his colleague Lord Varney at the Foreign Office. To help you—to help you arrest my husband.”





Chapter 17


“Your husband?” Serena said.

“Yes, I—it appears that he’s a traitor. He passes information to Bonaparte.”

“But—” Solomon began.

Serena tightened her grip on his wrist. “Are you sure?” she asked calmly.

“Yes.” Lady Brendan’s voice shook, but she didn’t look away. “I am sure. At first I could not believe it—his youngest son is with Wellington—but it is true.”

“And what do you want us to do?” Serena thought she spoke perfectly politely, but the woman flinched back shamefully as if she were a servant Serena had slapped. Not that Serena had ever slapped a servant.

“My husband asked me to arrange for you to cater a Venetian breakfast we are giving Monday next,” she said softly. “I believe he passes his information through monseigneur du Sacreval, who used to own this inn.”

It was such a small point, but Serena couldn’t let it pass. “Sacreval never owned this inn. He owned half of it.”

Lady Brendan blinked. “Ah. Well, the man at the Foreign Office told me to obey my husband, and they would arrest him at the party. Red-handed, he said.” She spoke the last few words so quietly Serena had to strain to hear them.

“Lady Brendan, may I point out that it was always you who placed catering orders here? You used to spend quite a long time closeted alone with Sacreval to do it. And”—Serena paused delicately—“you are French.”

Lady Brendan’s chin went up. “When I came here to confer with that fraud of a marquis, it was because my husband asked it of me. My husband”—she faltered—“he likes to eat well. He had very specific instructions.”

“In other words, he was using you to pass information,” Serena said. “Are you sure you weren’t in it together? Because I warn you, if you were, he’ll turn on you the second he’s taken.”

“I am no spy,” she said with quiet dignity. “I am loyal to my adopted country. My father was the vicomte de Tuyère. His blood and my brother’s was spilt on the guillotine. We were driven out of France so that Corsican upstart and his vulgar brothers and sisters could call themselves emperors and princesses and dukes.” Her lips trembled suddenly; she looked at her knotted hands. “And Lord Brendan’s son—he was so small when his father married me. Not even nine. I used to kiss him good night—I do not wish him to be killed. I will do what I must.”

“Very well,” Serena said. “You may leave the matter in our hands. Now, what would you like served at your breakfast? As you know, our chef has a number of specialties. I have a printed menu here.” She leaned over to get it out of her desk drawer.

“Lord Brendan always loved your asperges à l’italienne—” There was a choked noise, and when Serena looked up Lady Brendan’s clear gray eyes were filled with tears. “I’m sorry—only—they will cut off his head, and he has been good to me.”

Serena said nothing. What was there to say? If—when they arrested René, he would not even receive the peer’s privilege of a quick beheading.

Luckily, Solomon was there to fill the breach. “How dreadful for you,” he murmured, handing Lady Brendan his pocket-handkerchief.